


Of Trust and Longswords

by Tassos



Series: A City Elf Walks Into a Blight - Ian Tabris Stories [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Camp, Developing Friendships, Gen, Korcari Wilds, Post-Ostegar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 14:31:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5747935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassos/pseuds/Tassos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their way to Lothering, Ian and Alistair start getting to know each other. Ian's barely held a proper weapon before; Alistair offers to show him a few things. After a lifetime of living at the mercy of human whims, Ian's not sure what to make of his fellow warden trying to make friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Trust and Longswords

Ian's armor lay on the ground in front of him. Leather jerkin, gloves, and boots he'd been issued at Ostagar. They were covered in blood and gore, and scratched and torn in a dozen places where darkspawn swords and arrows had scored hits. Looking at the pieces, Ian was amazed that he hadn't gotten himself killed in the tower. Either that or Flemeth had repaired more than just the damage caused by the final explosion. The battle was still mostly a blur.

He had his armor laid out because Alistair had stripped off his to clean it, and Ian thought it might be a good idea too. They'd made camp for the night in the Wilds on the road to Lothering. Ian thought road was a generous term, but that's what Morrigan had called it. She had gone off somewhere after they made camp, silently and wordlessly, which Ian found more than a little unnerving. 

To be honest, he found the swamps and trees and every strange noise on the wind unnerving, too. He'd been gone from Denerim for a week, and even though in some ways it felt like a lifetime, he didn't think he'd ever grow accustomed to sleeping out of doors.

"You doing all right there?" Alistair threw a looming shadow over his armor. He held out the cloth that had wrapped around the bread in the pack Flemeth had given them. "You're supposed to clean it, not stare at it."

"I'm fine," Ian snapped, taking the cloth, which was damp. "Just waiting for you to be done."

"Well, good news for you, I'm done with my armor," Alistair said cheerfully. "Bad news is I'll need that back to go over my sword and shield. Really what we need is to find a smithy -- I've got dings that are not going to make putting that back on easy. But I suppose that'll have to wait till we get to the village."

Alistair kept standing there, and Ian, not wanting to look like a fool, started rubbing at the dried bloodstains self-consciously.

"What?" he snapped again when Alistair didn't go away.

"I'm guessing you haven't cared for much armor before," Alistair said. "Through no fault of your own, I'm sure," he added hastily when Ian glared. "You're an elf, you lived in the city -- Look, I can show you, if you want."

Whether he was sincere or not, Ian wasn't able to tell. If he was being even more honest with himself, he found Alistair unnerving too. He had greeted Ian with such relief when he'd had woken up at Flemeth's hut. He'd asked Ian's opinion about what they should do next about the Blight. Consideration like that wasn't something Ian was used to from humans. And now this offer of help.

Well, it wasn't like he was wrong. Ian hadn't the first clue what to do here -- he might have pretended to be skilled with his mother's practice staves, but Ostegar had disabused him of any notion that he was a warrior. Alistair and the mage and archer they'd picked up were the only reasons Ian had survived long enough to be rescued by Flemith at all.

That didn't make nodding for Alistair to join him easy. Ian swallowed his pride as best he could and shoved his leather armor toward the human with bad grace. He got a sideways look for his trouble, but Alistair didn't say anything as he started talking Ian through the proper care of his equipment. Keeping his eyes on Alistair's hands, made it easier to focus, though Ian was aware, even as he was listening that he wasn't going to remember all the names for all the different buckles and straps and flaps and things, much less what to do with them all. He was surprised when Alistair thrust the whole mess back in his lap and said, "There. Now put it on."

"Why?" Ian glanced sharply at his face, but Alistair was already standing. 

"To fit it properly to your body," he said. He tried to tug Ian's elbow to get him to move, but Ian shrugged him off. He could stand on his own.

"Did I do something wrong, or do you just not like me?" Alistair asked, reaching for the torso piece, but once he had it he just held it while he regarded Ian. "Because I'm getting the distinct impression that you don't like me very much."

His direct gaze was uncomfortable, and even though back home Ian would have been the first to let the humans who butted in exactly what he thought of them, Alistair was helping him and was his traveling companion for the foreseeable future.

"I don't know you," he said at last.

"Oh well, there's not much to know. I'm roguishly handsome, can hit the broad side of a barn with a bow and the skull of a darkspawn with a sword, and I like cheese." Alistair grinned and started futzing with the armor straps.

Despite himself, Ian relaxed a little. Alistair was handsome. Too human, but handsome. "I like cheese, too," he said. 

"There, see?" Alistair said cheerfully. "We have loads in common." He circled around behind Ian and tugged and adjusted more things Ian couldn't see, instructing him to raise his arms, twist and turn. 

By the time Alistair was satisfied, Ian was surprised at how much more range of movement he had and how much less the armor cut into odd spots under his arms.

"What do you think?" Alistair stepped back, giving Ian a critical once over. "Ready for your sword and dagger?"

Before Ian could reply, Alistair picked them both up, in their sheaths and attached them to the fittings on his armor.

"You're shorter than I'm used to. Let's see you draw."

"I'm not short for an elf," Ian pointed out, but he reached for the longsword anyway. It was, well, longer than he was used to, and the tip caught leaving him awkwardly raising on his tiptoes as if that would make his arms longer. To Ian's deep embarrassment, Alistair laughed.

Ian glared at him. "So glad you think this is funny."

"But you should see yourself," Alistair shot back, stepping up to help him. _He_ was tall enough to grasp the hilt with one hand while he held the scabbard down with the other. "You look like me before I hit my growth. I always told the training master I needed a monkey to help with my swing. He said a monkey would be more graceful. He was glad to give me up to the Wardens." The tension released all of a sudden, both from the caught sword and between Ian and Alistair as Ian suddenly imagined the other man as a youth swimming in armor too big for him. Alistair couldn't be that many years older than him. 

"And what did the Wardens think?" Ian asked. 

Alistair was readjusting the scabbards, and he didn't answer right away. Ian only realized his mistake as the silence stretched on.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to open the wound." Ian knew what loss felt like, and he'd seen it writ large across Alistair's face only that morning.

Behind him, his ears caught Alistair clearing his throat. "No need to apologize," he said, but the catch in his voice belied his words. "The Wardens were-" he stopped and swallowed again, and Ian never found out what the Wardens were because Alistair finished resetting his blades in silence, patting his back when he finished. "Try that."

Ian, still feeling guilty, tried drawing the longsword again without protest. He managed it, and only felt like he was going to fall over once. Without prompting, he drew his dagger as well, and crouched in battle readiness.

"A wider stance will keep you more stable," Alistair told him. "And keep the tip of your sword up."

"It's heavier than I'm used to," Ian said. His wrist ached already.

"Never fought with a longsword before?" Alistair frowned.

"Never fought with much of anything before Duncan recruited me," Ian said. "He gave me my first blade. The City Watch isn't fond of elves owning weapons," he added with a bitter twist to his lips.

"You have some training. I saw you sweep a darkspawn's head off."

"My mother knew the dueling arts. Before she died, she taught me a few things." Ian shook his head. "I'm much better at picking pockets."

"Good to know, but no offense, if you're going to be watching my back, I'd much rather you know how to hit someone with a sword."

Ready to prove he wasn't helpless, Ian abruptly took a practice swipe that had a surprised Alistair jumping backward. "I think I can manage that, at least."

"Ha ha, very funny. Watch who you stick that thing in -- I mean -- don't stick it -- that --" To Ian's complete surprise Alistair blushed and clapped a hand over his face from embarrassment. "Forget I said anything."

It was that more than anything else that he'd said or done that made Ian stop and really look at the other warden for a moment, on his own terms. Alistair wasn't sneering at him, or poking fun without poking it at himself at the same time. He might still see a lazy elf when he looked at Ian, but he'd helped with Ian's armor and equipment without any fuss, and that was more than anyone except his own kind had ever shown him before.

"All right," Ian said slowly, not sure what any of it meant. He still saw every guard and wretched noble that had lorded over the alienage in Alistair's height and broad frame. He was painfully aware of just what damage that reach and strength could do to his slighter build when he was least expecting it. He knew that the moment Alistair turned on him, he'd have no remorse in cutting him down. But.

"How about you teach me," Ian said. "The sword, I mean," he added when Alistair looked confused. 

"Me, teach you?" The idea seemed to take Alistair by surprise, but after a moment he nodded. "I suppose I could show you a thing or two. I don't know as much about fighting with a pair of blades, but I know plenty about swords." He looked around the clearing and nodded over at a relatively flat patch of ground. He trotted over to his pack to retrieve his own sword, leaving his shield where is was by his bed roll. 

Ian followed. It took Alistair a few tries to decide what he wanted to start with -- Ian's stance or his inability to cleanly draw the longsword over his shoulder -- but once it was decided he wasn't a half-bad teacher. By the time late afternoon gave way to full dark and both their stomachs were grumbling for supper, Ian was sweating, and his shoulders and thighs ached along with his wrists. He felt clumsy, like a gangly boy again.

Alistair, also drenched in sweat, flopped to the ground after stripping off his armor and setting aside his sword. He looked as happy as Ian had ever seen him in the short time they'd known each other, and grinned over at Ian. Ian braced himself for a snarky comment on his form and clumsiness -- and had the sudden gut wrenching realization that Shianni should be the one laughing at his inexperience. 

But Alistair only said, "You're a quick study." 

"I better be quick, or you'll have my head. Or worse, someone else will," Ian replied, trying to shake off thoughts of Shianni by going to gather firewood. He hoped she was healing, but he doubted he'd ever see her again to find out. Denerim was so far away, and the Wilds around them so thick and close. It felt like another lifetime.

"Don't worry, until you can lop off other people's heads, I'll keep them away from yours." Alistair stirred himself enough to find stones for a make-shift hearth, and Ian froze, watching him. Not sure whether to trust his words or not. Alistair didn't appear to be making a joke, and he hadn't noticed that he had given Ian pause. Did that mean he meant it? Ian returned to gathering sticks and fallen branches. Like before, he wasn't sure what it meant. 

Between the two of them, they got a fire going. Alistair chattered aimlessly about their dinner options, and Ian listened with half an ear as the mundane tasks of getting their meal prepared seemed to crystalize reality around him. This was it now. Just him, Alistair and Morrigan, who reappeared from wherever she'd gone as soon as supper was ready. He didn't know that he fully trusted either of his traveling companions yet, but as he listened to Morrigan criticize Alistair's cooking -- then ask for Ian's opinion, as if it _mattered_ \-- he had a glimmer of hope that he would at least survive long enough to get to Lothering.

~*~


End file.
